commerce? It is contempt. We trust him on, and we lose
what he pocket--a sossand. We burst on him, and we lose twenty, serty,
forty; and we lose reputation."

"I'd have every villain hanged," cried Mr. Pole. "The scoundrel! I'd
hang him with his own hemp. He talks of a factory burnt, and dares to
joke about tallow! and in a business letter! and when he is telling one
of a loss of money to that amount!"

"Not bad, ze joke," grinned Mr. Pericles. "It is a lesson of coolness.
We learn it. But mind! he say, 'possible loss.' It is not positif. Hein!
ze man is trying us. So! shall we burst out and make him desperate? We
are in his hand at Riga, you see?"

"I see this," said Mr. Pole, "that he's a confounded rascal, and I'll
know whether the law can't reach him."

"Ha! ze law!" Mr. Pericles sneered. "So you are, you. English. Always,
ze law! But, we are men--we are not machine. Law for a machine, not
a man! We punish him, perhaps. Well; he is punished. He is
imprisoned--forty monz. We pay for him a sossand pound a monz. He is
flogged--forty lashes. We pay for him a sossand pound a lash. You can
afford zat? It is a luxury like anozer. It is not for me."

"How long are we to trust the villain?" said Mr. Pole. "If we trust him
at all, mind! I don't say I do, or will."

"Ze money is locked up for a year, my friend. So soon we get it, so soon
he goes, from ze toe off." Mr. Pericles' shining toe's-tip performed
an agile circuit, and he smoothed his square clean jaw and venomous
moustache reflectively. "Not now," he resumed. "While he hold us in his
hand, we will not drive him to ze devil, or we go too, I believe, or
part of ze way. But now, we say, zat money is frozen in ze Nord. We
will make it in Australie, and in Greek waters. I have exposed to you my
plan."

"Yes," said Mr. Pole, "and I've told you I've no pretensions to be a
capitalist. We have no less than three ventures out, already."

"It is like you English! When you have ze world to milk, you go to
one point and stick. It fails, and you fail. What is zat word?"--Mr.
Pericles tapped his brow--"pluck,--you want pluck. It is your decadence.
Greek, and Russian, and Yankee, all zey beat you. For, it is pluck. You
make a pin's head, not a pin. It is in brain and heart you do fail. You
have only your position,--an island, and ships, and some favour. You
are no match in pluck. We beat you. And we live for pleasure, while you
groan and sweat--mon Dieu! it is slavery."

M